Drive My Car

Drive My Car by Lisa Stathoplos

DRIVE MY CAR.

We drive into Bangor to get music at Bull Moose. Get the music —Deep Purple, Made In Japan, on CD. I wore mine out with beach sand. We're returning to Searsport. I’m driving 'cuz I always drive. Casually, I gesture to the inspection sticker behind the rearview mirror in my Tacoma single cab.

“Michael, when is that out?”

He pulls the mirror aside and looks. At exactly the same time, I see a cop parked ahead of us on the side of Route 2.

 “It was out months ago.”

FUCK!

Blue lights go on.

Are you effing kidding me???!!!

 (Reader knows who says this.)

I pull into the Big Apple store nearby and park, mutter some more words saved up just for this. Michael rifles through the glove compartment for “coppish” accoutrements.

The cherubic officer saunters to my truck and politely asks for my license. I hand it over along with accoutrements.

“Thanks.”

He lumbers back to his cruiser. He looks all of twelve.

Eyeing him in my rearview with a self-satisfied smirk:

Wait’ll he gets a load of my forty-year, perfectly clean slate.

I immediately realize who I have tempted.

The callow-faced officer returns. Leaning low to my window, eyes scanning across me to Michael, he, oddly enough, asks if Michael has a license. Michael assents. I'm confused.

“The reason I ask is, your license, Miss, expired over a year ago. Driving without a license is a misdemeanor.”

Guess I don’t get pulled over much!

Astounded, I muse this to no one in particular.

“If your husband drives, Miss, I’ll let you go with a warning. But, driving without a license is a misdemeanor which will be on your criminal record.”

Yes, thank you, sure, okay; I do know what a misdemeanor is. And, he’s not my husband. We live in sin.

I don’t say that last part.

“And, Miss, you need to get this truck off the road until it is inspected.”

Seven days away from Medicare, I’m lovin’ the “Miss.”

Thanks so much, Officer. Must’ve been the pandemic — I’ve not been paying close attention to official documents, ha, ha!

I slide out of my truck and trundle to the passenger side, smiling widely in his general direction.

The boyish officer grins, seems amused. He drives away. As do we.

Later, on Route 1A:

WHATTHEMOTHEREFFINGFUCK??????!!!!!!! Michael! Who on earth pays attention to driver’s licenses?!

 Michael chuckles.

“Not you, apparently.”

Good thing he didn't notice you're drunk.

Michael chuckles some more.

Note: Michael is not drunk. He would not drink and drive.

Me neither.

Moral of story: There is no moral.

Check your license.

 Copyright © 2025 lisa stathoplos Slay Me, My Hapless Darlings